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The mind and all its neural pathways is perpetually fascinating, and I aspire to being more well-versed in the science of it all, but my fiction does not derive from any specific study of neuroscience—the way, for instance, a Richard Powers novel might. More likely it derives from being immured in my own mind with all its limitations and preferences: neurosis rather than neuroscience! But the philosophical has been a rich realm for my fiction. Philosophy—or perhaps I should say my own misuse of it—has always been my catalyst.

прекрасная, люблю её: Ah, the tangent. I’m sure this is for any conventional reader the most unappealing aspect of my work. There seems some perversity at work, in which I do not wish to prioritize the “point.” My interest is instead circuitousness, the abundance of possibilities, the branching. I have never been a linear thinker, and much as I covet that talent in others, I am stuck with my own more inefficient, complicated mode of processing and synthesizing, and I suppose it is just natural that crafting my narratives enshrines this. There are so many instances in life in which this feature seems an enormous disadvantage, but I am always hopeful that in art, if foregrounded, it potentially creates new opportunities.
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